Sunday, March 27, 2016

Tell Me a Story by Tamara Lush

Bookstore owner Emma Chase attends a sexy literacy fundraiser
called Story Brothel in Orlando, expecting a few
raunchy jokes and a chance to show off her writing. She’s intrigued when Caleb
King, a successful real estate developer in a custom tailored suit, pays to
listen to her read from her erotic novel.

Later, the mysterious Caleb with beautiful eyes asks her to read
him a bedtime story at his penthouse condo – and she can’t say no to his
demands.

But Emma’s been burnt before, and
is reluctant to be the plaything of a rich man whose world is so different than
hers. She also doesn’t need distractions because her business in danger of
closing and everything she’s worked for is poised to crumble. Emma’s made it
this far on her own, but as one-night with Caleb turns into more and develops
into something deeper, can she trust him when secrets are revealed?

“How much?” he asked.
It was a sexy voice, a deep voice, and I smiled—a smile that alluded to
everything but promised nothing, aware of appearing coy and knowing and
not-too-eager.

I was in the mood to
flirt.

Before I could answer,
my friend Sarah broke in. “It’s two dollars a minute. Two dollars, one minute
of reading. Half goes to charity, half goes to the writer. But you can
negotiate with the writer, if you know what I mean.”

The man smiled and ran
a thumb over his full bottom lip as he looked me up and down.

Sarah laughed and
wiggled her dark brows. “That’s why I called it Story Brothel. It’s between the
reader—” she clapped him on the shoulder “—and the writer. God, I love this. I
feel like a madam. Like the Heidi Fleiss of Florida fiction.”

She reached to squeeze
my arm, then leaned into me and lowered her voice playfully. “Remember: half
for charity. No skimming.”

I rolled my eyes. “Like
I’d do that.” Sarah stood on her tiptoes and kissed me on the cheek.

“He looks rich. Maybe
he’ll pay you extra so you can save the bookstore,” she whispered.

I scowled, not wanting
a reminder of work. This was my rare night out, a time when I wasn’t buried in
orders or paperwork or my writing. It was when I transformed myself from
serious shop owner into romance writer, like some pulp fiction superheroine.
Glasses off; wild, curly hair down; blood-red lipstick staining every napkin
and cocktail rim in my path.

And maybe this man’s
mouth in a short while. I was long overdue for male attention. At least, that’s
what I told myself as I took in his charcoal suit, his crisp white shirt, and
the platinum glint of a wristwatch dial. I hadn’t been kissed in a long
time—not well, at least. And not by a man this interesting looking.

An unfamiliar song came
on, some Arabic-lounge groove with strong, heavy drums. It was how my heart
felt against my ribcage. Sarah moved into the crowd. I kept smiling. So did he.

“Story Brothel,” he
murmured in a voice so low I could barely hear the words. Because he was tall,
he had to tilt his face and his gunmetal-blue eyes downward to look at me.

I shook my head
dramatically and clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “You don’t
seem like the type of man who’d come to an event like this.”

“I don’t?” His
eyes glittered and teased. They were such a gorgeous hue that popped
against his long, dark lashes. He wasn’t the most handsome man I’d ever seen,
but he radiated confidence and sensuality. His features—high cheekbones, a
slightly big nose, a strong jaw—wouldn’t have stood out on their own, but the
combination was irresistibly masculine. Intriguing. Fuckable.

“No. And I’ve never
seen you here before.”

“This isn’t a one-time
only thing?”

“It’s a monthly thing,
for the Orlando Literacy Council.”

“So you’re an
experienced…story…?” He motioned in a half-circle with his hand, and a
salacious grin crept on his face.

“Whore?” I offered
with mock innocence.

“You said it. I
didn’t.”

That made me giggle.

“What’s that quote
about writing and prostitution?” he asked.

I tilted my head, and a
grin the size of the Everglades stretched across my face. It was impossible not
to react because his question surprised me. Even though I owned a bookstore,
meeting well-read, hot men was a rare event in my central Florida city, which
was better known as the home of a giant cartoon mouse.